


tomorrow past tonight

by vegansheilseitan



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: (they don't), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Feelings, First Time, Hair-pulling, M/M, Masturbation, Mosaic Timeline, Overuse of italics, PLEASE JUST TALK TO EACH OTHER, PWP, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Season/Series 03, So much kissing, a big goddamn lack of communication, ish, kind of, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 21:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegansheilseitan/pseuds/vegansheilseitan
Summary: He’s moving before he even realizes it, words be damned. He kisses Eliot, soft and sure and short and sweet, with all the feeling he couldn’t put into words. It’s only a moment but it’s enough and Eliot kisses him back.Or: Quentin tries (and fails) to talk about his feelings before, during, and after the mosaic kiss. It’ll probably be fine. (We all know it won’t be fine.)





	tomorrow past tonight

**Author's Note:**

> So this mess is what happens when I try and fail miserably to write a 5+1 about Quentin's thought process leading up to the mosaic kiss and instead write a bunch of feelings porn where no one will talk about their feelings.  
> Title is from the line "It's just so hard to see tomorrow past tonight" from [Peach](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F56WIVimCDA) by The Front Bottoms because, in addition to being titled _Peach _, the song itself is so Queliot I can't believe it__  
> 

_Six months_

“Green.”

Their fingers brush as Eliot hands him the tile. The touch is soft, accidental. There’s no thought or intention behind it, but it still makes Q’s stomach drop. Still makes the skin of his fingertips ring for an echoing moment after the small contact.

Eliot had always been an affectionate friend and Quentin –desperate for any and all human contact even at the best of times– had never minded. Even after he’d slept with Eliot and Margo, the casual affection was never loaded with any extra meaning. But then it had never just been the two of them alone for this long.

It had never been just Quentin who got to have Eliot wrap an arm around him as they walked through the woods or play with his hair while they lounged, bored, on a couch. And likewise, he figured, Eliot wasn’t used to having Quentin as his only outlet for touch. He and Margo had practically been joined at the hip before. Quentin _knows_ that Eliot is just a touchy person. And when they first came to Fillory he was so used to the casual touches that he didn’t even notice.

He notices now.

Like he’s fine tuned to Eliot’s every touch, hyperaware for the next point of contact. Every hand rested on the small of his back (and god how had he never noticed how _big_ Eliot’s hands are?), every movement of his chest pressed against Quentin at night as he breathes, every light brush of fingers as he tucks a lock of hair behind Quentin’s ear. Everything he hadn’t noticed before is something he can’t _not_ notice now

 He places the tile with a more care than is strictly necessary –a second to compose himself before he meets Eliot’s eyes– and wonders, far from the first time since they’d gotten to Fillory six months ago, how his fingers would feel elsewhere on Quentin’s skin.

For a moment he wants to ask him… something. If Eliot feels this tension between them. If he wants to do something about it. Or maybe just do Quentin. But how do you _ask out_ someone you live with, and work with, and eat and drink and spend all your time with?

“Thanks,” he swallows, mouth dry, breaking eye contact after what he hopes was a normal amount of time.

He tries not to think about it for the rest of the day.

 

\--

_Eight months_

They had long since developed an understanding about jerking off. It reminds Quentin, somewhat less than fondly, of his freshman year of undergrad. Sharing a one-room living space with another guy and trying to eke out whatever privacy could be demanded with minimal awkwardness. His freshman dorm at least had _showers_ though.

And even the world’s best don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy doesn’t make it easier for Quentin to pretend he doesn’t know exactly what Eliot is doing in the cottage when he doesn’t follow Quentin out after breakfast. Doesn’t make it easier not to imagine exactly how he might be touching himself. It definitely didn’t help that Q was intimately familiar with Eliot’s dick either. Wine drunk and out of their minds or not, Eliot Waugh’s was not a penis easily forgotten and Quentin’s brain –helpful as fucking always– never failed to conjure exquisitely detailed pictures of the man’s big hands wrapped around his big-

-and that is a train of thought he is _not_ going to board at this moment.

He redirects and begins to plan where to place tiles for the day’s pattern. There are only so many times he can disappear into the cottage immediately after Eliot reappears before a pattern forms.

Not that Quentin really thinks Eliot would _mind_ that pattern. At worst, he thinks, he’d be flattered. And at best he’d do absolutely everything to him he could imagine and probably _more_.

And part of Quentin really, _really_ wants to just say _fuck it_ and “accidentally” interrupt Eliot’s private time. Or stop pretending he doesn’t notice the occasions one of them wakes up with morning wood pressed against the other. Or, fuck it, just drop to his knees in the middle of the mosaic one day.

The sex isn’t the part Quentin worries about. Because if this whole mosaic sub-quest could just be a nice vacation filled with country living and casual sex, he’d have no problem.

The _problem_ is, Quentin isn’t sure if he wants to just be Eliot’s fuck buddy for the indefinite future. _Casual_ had never really worked for him. And he’s not sure Eliot _does_ anything beyond casual –political marriages notwithstanding. Let alone that _he_ might be good enough for Eliot to bend that rule for in the first place.

The cottage door creaks him out of his thought spiral.

“So, Q my dear, how are we going to show the beauty of all life today?”

 

\---

_Eleven months_

As he’s staring up at the thatch ceiling of the cottage just a few weeks short of the one-year mark, sleepless despite his own best efforts and Eliot’s warm body next to him, it starts to sink in for Quentin that this _really is_ going to take a while.

When he’d said, early on, that he _didn’t think it would take a decade,_ he’d been pulling a figure out of his ass but _now_? Now a decade seems more realistic than he’d imagined.

So Quentin starts to imagine.

He’s here, with Eliot, for nine more years. For twelve. For twenty, or thirty.

_Why the fuck not?_

They spend every day together –apart from when one of them makes the trip into town for supplies they can’t grow, find, or jerry-rig with magic– and instead of feeling stifled or sick of him, Quentin _enjoys_ it. A part of him loves that he gets Eliot to himself and revels in the fact that Eliot seems to enjoy being alone on the quest with him too.

Giving the ceiling a break from his insomniac scrutiny, he shifts his gaze over to his sleeping companion. He’s pretty positive the tension is mutual. Going by their last sexual encounter, Eliot is at least down to bang him theoretically and if he’s even half as sexually frustrated as Quentin is right now, _that_ half of the equation solves itself.

And there’s a softness that’s grown in Eliot since they’ve been here. An almost-tenderness Q catches in his face sometimes. Easy to miss if you don’t know how to read him, easy to brush off until it happens again and again. He’s not kidding himself that Eliot is secretly _in love_ with him, but he can feel _something_. Some kind of potential that’s been brewing between them longer than they’ve even been here.

And sure they bicker, they even fight sometimes when the stress gets to them, but it’s nothing like when he and Alice would fight. The angry tension doesn’t linger in the air between them after they’ve cooled off.

He’d been so caught up in what would happen when they got back if he told Eliot what he wanted _now_ and it made things messy _then_. But if they really were going to be here a decade? Quentin didn’t want to spend it pining and regret what might have been if they gave it a shot.

By the time he manages to drift off to sleep, he’s made a decision.

 

\---

 _One year_  

He tries for weeks, hyping himself up every day. _Just do it. Just tell him. Just say something._ He’s fairly confident Eliot will reciprocate. But the timing never seems right for some reason. And when he does spot a rare, opportune moment, the words never seem to want to come out.

By their one year anniversary, which Eliot had insisted they celebrate, he’d memorized and changed and memorized a dozen versions of not-quite what he wanted to say.

They’re sitting on their favorite quilt under the stars, drinking blackberry wine and his leg is bouncing with nerves and _he knows._ He knows _this_ , this is his chance.

He just has to say it.

“Happy anniversary, Q,” his name sounds so soft on Eliot’s lips, “to our first and last year at this thing.”

Their eyes meet briefly as their worn metal cups clink warmly into the night. Eliot smiles and Q can’t help but to smile back even with his heart hammering in his chest. He downs his cup, nervous, obviously, but not anxious for once. _Now or never._

“Hey,” he says.

_I’ve been thinking, being here with you has made me realize that we work…_

_I think we could have something really beautiful if you wanted to give it a try…_

_If we solve this tomorrow I still want to wake up next to you every morning…_

_I’m pretty sure I’m about to fall in love with you._

 “I um-” _fuck it._

He’s moving before he even realizes it, words be damned. He kisses Eliot, soft and sure and short and sweet, with all the feeling he couldn’t put into words. It’s only a moment but it’s _enough_ and Eliot _kisses him back_.

They pull apart and he may not be able to put it into words, but he keeps eye contact, determined to show how much he means it. His hand giving a little twitch as if to say _well, that happened._ Eliot smiles. Pleasantly surprised but not shocked, which is a good sign, and Q feels his heart _burst_ in his chest because _finally_.

One of Eliot’s hands covers his own on the blanket, the other coming up against his neck in a way Quentin can only say is _tender_ , thumb just brushing his jaw.

When Eliot kisses him, there’s a sureness in his movements that Quentin had been missing. This kiss is longer and deeper and no less _sweet_ than the first one. The tension Quentin has felt between them for so long burning up on their lips with the taste of blackberry wine.

He’s not sure if Eliot pushes him back or if he pulls the other man down but they end up spread out on the blanket with Eliot above him, kissing and kissing and kissing for what feels like hours. Quentin is half hard in his jeans, but he can’t bring himself to stop their teenage makeout session until they shift and he feels Eliot hard against his thigh too.

Eliot meets his eyes as if to ask _is this okay?_ and Q doesn’t know how to respond except to press every line of his body up harder against Eliot and then they’re kissing again and it feels like Quentin had been holding his breath the entire time they were apart and suddenly he can breathe again. His hands move, _starving_ , over Eliot, cupping his face, feeling the broadness of his shoulders, the length of his back, and as far down as he can reach –because Eliot is _frustratingly_ tall– to the curve of just the top of his ass. He wants more.

Holding Eliot’s face to his so they don’t break apart, Q shifts until the man on top of him gets the memo and helps roll them over. Immediately, he misses the weight of Eliot on top of him, but it’s a fair exchange for the opportunity for his hands to stroke up the outsides of Eliot’s muscular thighs, and for the feeling of Eliot’s hands burning down his back to cup his ass. Q takes a moment to revel in the feeling of wanting and being wanted before he loses himself in the kiss again.

It’s so painfully high school, but he’s not sure he’s ever enjoyed _making out with someone_ as much as this. He’s also not sure he’s ever been this hard while fully dressed. As though Eliot could hear his brain working, Quentin feels him shift beneath him and –way, _way_ more gracefully than he has any right to be– Elliot is sitting up so that Quentin is in his lap, which _fuck_ Quentin was not expecting to like so much _fuck_.

“Hang on, baby, fuck.” Eliot sounds utterly _wrecked_ when he breaks the kiss and that distracts Quentin enough that he doesn’t actually register what any of the words before _baby_ mean until Eliot is _picking him up_.

It’s not graceful. Eliot may have quite a bit of height on him, but getting from seated to standing while holding a fully grown man is not an easy task by a longshot. He manages it though and Quentin quickly finds himself, legs wrapped around hips and arms over shoulders, being carried towards the cabin.

He’s pretty sure his brain just _melts_ right then and there, overwhelmed by how much he enjoys Eliot’s hands on his ass and Eliot’s breath and lips and teeth so gently scraping against his neck and _Eliot fucking carrying him to bed_.

Considering how small the cabin is, it’s not a surprise that they reach their destination before Quentin has fully recovered and suddenly he’s on the bed – _their_ bed– with Eliot kneeling over him. All the gentle slowness from before rushes away as soon as Quentin pulls him down into another kiss, this time sloppy and dirty and _fuck me_. All of a sudden he can’t _stand_ their clothes any more, hands coming to impatiently work open the buttons of Eliot’s shirt. Eliot, because he’s _a genius_ , starts working open their pants and with some minor shuffling and a brief separation they finally get naked.

“Fuck, Q.” Eliot’s above him again, straddling his thighs, gloriously naked. He strokes Eliot’s thighs because it’s the only skin within easy reach, but he can’t stop staring. His first _real,_ more-or-less sober look at the other man in all of his glory. Every inch of Eliot is beautiful. His broad shoulders. His chest –and Quentin knows he’s gone on Eliot because he never thought _chest hair_ would be doing it for him– with small, dusky, pebbled nipples. The straight, masculine lines of his torso. Lines leading down to _his cock_. His cock which is even more gorgeous than Quentin remembers, long and thick and _fuck_ Quentin is pretty sure he’s not even fully hard at the moment and he’s still just _big._

Next time, Quentin wants to put his mouth all over the man. Feel every piece of him with his lips. For now though he just enjoys feeling Eliot’s hands run over his bare chest, down his hips and thighs and then back up again, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to _touch_ and wants to feel as much as he can before he loses the opportunity. Eventually, one of his hands wraps around Quentin’s cock, stroking him with a slow single mindedness and those careful, piercing eyes. He feels like Eliot’s eyes are taking him apart just as much as the hand on his cock.

“Will you tell me if you’re uncomfortable with anything I do to you?” Eliot sounds like he’s trying to seem more composed than he actually is. Quentin can’t think of anything he wouldn’t be okay with Eliot doing to him right now, but he nods anyway, “I promise.”

“Well then.” he sounds downright _predatory_. Like he’s going to tear Quentin apart and make him beg for more. Before Quentin can even complain about the hand leaving his cock he realizes Eliot is moving down his body. As soon as his brain makes the connection, he can’t think about anything other than Eliot’s mouth wrapped around him.

The whole universe narrows down to the space between Eliot’s lips.

And then it _crashes_.

Quentin’s had blowjobs before. Quentin has had amazing, fantastic blowjobs before. None of it even compares to the feeling of Eliot’s tongue working _just like that_ up the head of his cock.  He’s not even properly in Eliot’s _mouth_ yet and his thighs are shaking. It’s not that he’s close already –though he doesn’t doubt he will be embarrassingly soon– it’s the burning need of _expectation_ ripping through him. Eliot sucks the tip, just the tip, into his mouth and the _sight of it_ is almost on par with the firm pressure of his lips, the purposeful strokes of his tongue right where Quentin’s head meets the shaft, the suction as Eliot takes him painstakingly deeper. The slow pace isn’t a tease, Quentin knows how to read Eliot well enough even in a new context here. It’s a study, almost worshipful as he learns every detail, every vein, every millimeter of skin with his lips and tongue.

Q –mentally, emotionally, _spiritually_ – can’t bear to watch anymore once Eliot has worked his way down the shaft. He stares at the ceiling, then at his eyelids as his head hits the back of Eliot’s throat.

_This was worth losing magic._

Eliot gives head the way he casts. Purposeful. Deliberate. And absolutely naturally. He’s amazed at how long he holds up to the onslaught of sensory overload. It feels like a calculated deconstruction of his entire being.

“ _El_ \- fuck, Eliot,” his voice is breathy and wrecked, “I’m gonna come.”

Eliot pulls off of him and it’s _galactic_. Like a planet consumed by a black hole, void and empty where something beautiful just was.

“Not yet, baby.” a careful finger brushes up the side of his shaft, careful to stay away from any particularly sensitive spots. Q looks down at Eliot –who’s once again kneeling upright in his lap– intending to beg. His voice and his brain both _break_ momentarily when he sees Eliot’s other hand jerking himself steadily, and he’s _definitely_ fully hard now, long and thick, his thumb _just_ playing with the tip.

“Sometime, I’ll let you really watch me,” Quentin rips his eyes upward to Eliot’s, that word echoing in his head, _sometime_ , “but I have other plans for now.”

With obvious reluctance, Eliot lets go of his cock and slinks down again, but instead of resuming their earlier activities and sucking Q back into his mouth, he goes lower, placing a kiss just on the inside of Q’s thigh, an inch or so above the knee.

It hits Quentin what Eliot is planning to do to him. But he’s pretty sure that’s Eliot’s intention: to be obvious. To give him an out if he wants to take it.

He’s sure he could just pull Eliot’s head back up to his cock, no questions asked. He almost does, just because he _wants_. But he remembers _last time._ How exposed he felt, even intoxicated as they were. How despite that, he’d been so turned on he practically begged Eliot to fuck him after.

He looks down at the dark curls between his legs moving steadily, but too slowly, upwards and says, “El, _please_ ,”

He can feel the smirk against his skin, “if you insist, Coldwater.” And strong hands are pressing his legs up for Q to hold himself. Eliot’s tongue laves along his sac before sucking each ball gently into his mouth one at a time, one hand cupping them gently. Then. _Then_ he licks, slowly, down below his balls, thumbs spreading Quentin apart just the smallest bit more before- _before-_

Quentin’s brain, only holding on by a thread at this point anyway, breaks.

Whereas the blowjob had been methodical, calculated explicitly to break him down, this was something else entirely. He’d been expecting Eliot to work him over slowly, maybe tease him a bit. He hadn’t been expecting Eliot to just dive in with broad, wet strokes of his tongue, fingers squeezing eagerly into the flesh of his ass and thighs, desperate for more.

Quentin had forgotten just how intense this was, how shockingly _sensitive_ he was there. He bites back a groan as Eliot’s broad strokes turn into narrowing rings of his tongue, maddeningly closer and closer to the center of Quentin’s hole.

Suddenly, a thumb replaces the tongue, “There’s no one for miles, Q, let me hear you,”

Spit slick thumb still pressing little circles against him, he stares up until Quentin meets his eyes and _fuck_ Eliot looks as debauched as he sounds, like this is wrecking him as much as it is Quentin. He stares a moment longer before he realizes Eliot is waiting for acknowledgement and nods.

Eliot immediately resumes his attack, tongue and thumb working in tandem and, now that he’s been given permission, Quentin isn’t sure he could stop the sounds he’s making if he tried. He can feel himself opening up for Eliot, eager for whatever he can get. The thumb presses just ever so slightly _into_ him and suddenly, “Yes, El, _please_ ,” Q wants _everything_.

He swears he feels Eliot whisper a _fuck_ against his skin for a moment before doubling down, tongue working as far inside Q as it can get. He can feel saliva running _everywhere_ and for some reason _that_ –rather than the _tongue in his ass_ – feels like the filthiest thing in the world in the _best_ way. He realizes he can feel Eliot grinding into the mattress in time with the strokes of his tongue, wonders absently if the other man even realizes he’s doing it or if he’s so desperate to take the edge off that his body made the decision for him. His own dick reminds him that _it_ hasn’t had any attention since Eliot focused his mouth elsewhere and he’s not even thinking when he moves one hand to stroke himself, releasing one of his legs in the process. Immediately, Eliot’s free hand compensates, pushing him open even further and _fuck_ Eliot spreading his legs apart shouldn’t be that hot but it is and he’s suddenly _so close_. When Eliot pulls away again, this time making his way up to Q’s face, he’s pretty sure he sobs.

“Two options,” Eliot sounds like the words are a struggle to find, spitting them out fast like they’ll disappear if he doesn’t, but Quentin is hanging onto every one of them staring intently into his eyes, hand slipping away from his dick, “I can make you come just like this,” he starts to grind –unconsciously, Quentin thinks– down so that their cocks slot together clumsily before continuing, “maybe blow you some more and let you ride my fingers-” he’s going to _kill_ Quentin talking like that, “ _Or_ ” he takes a shaky breath, “I can bend you over and make you come on my cock.”

Quentin is so ready to come, the act of choosing is more brain power than he can really muster, but he consider both. A big part of him wants to just keep doing this, wants to come in or on or from Eliot’s mouth somehow. Wants to make Eliot fall apart in the same way, wants to get his mouth on Eliot’s dick and _thank him_ for absolutely ruining Q for anyone else. He knows it would be quicker that way and he _wants_ desperately to come, has been so keyed up for so long. ( _And,_ part of his brain reminds him, _the mosaic isn’t going to be finished any time soon,_ despite what Eliot said at their toast. They have plenty of time for everything. He doubts _very seriously_ this will be the only time they bang on this quest.)

But he also wants _more._ Wants to take everything Eliot is willing to give him. And if he’s honest, he _really_ wants to feel Eliot inside him again, stretching him open and filling him up with that big, perfect cock. He thinks, as much as he can with his upstairs brain at the moment, about how Eliot struggled to keep any semblance of composure during the suggestion. He realizes, abruptly, how badly Eliot wants to fuck him. How generously the other man has been focused solely on Quentin’s pleasure, how he didn’t mention anything about his own orgasm.

He cups Eliot’s face with one hand and pulls him into a searing kiss, messy and dirty and _so, so_ _hot_ he can barely stand it, “I want-” he stutters as Eliot works one of his big hands between them to wrap around both their dicks, “I want you to fuck me, Eliot.”

He feels Eliot exhale, breath staccato and sharp against his lips before their mouths meet again. Too soon, the hand on their cocks comes to cup his face and Quentin feels Eliot go to pull away. Without thinking, his mouth follows up, magnetic. Just for a second, he just needs to kiss him a little bit longer, before-

Eliot’s hand tightens in his hair, _pulling_ him away. He’s too far gone to even be embarrassed at the moan _that_ forces out of him, mouth still open and wanting.

He hears Eliot mutter another _fuck_ under his breath, hooking a finger into Q’s mouth and watching him suck before he’s even decided to. He pulls his hair once more, testing, and studies the resulting shiver, the small sound reverberating around his finger. The hand in his hair turns Quentin’s head just a fraction of an inch so that Eliot’s lips are against his ear, “You’re going to fucking kill me, Coldwater. Get on your hands and knees.”

And, too fast for Quentin’s liking, Eliot pulls away apart from desperate hands turning him over. Hands that wander up his thighs, cupping his ass before moving up his back, over his shoulders, before releasing him entirely.

“Do you remember the spell from last time?” Quentin nods, he remembers a lot more from last time than he’s allowed Eliot and Margo to believe. Absently, he’s thankful they have magic here because he’s pretty certain neither of them would have thought to find lube otherwise.

Behind him, Eliot must have gone through the tuts because suddenly he’s wet with more than just saliva and Eliot is brushing a finger over his hole, just a tease of contact. He thinks he should feel exposed like this, on all fours with Eliot about to finger him open. Something about it though, maybe the fact that he can’t see Eliot kneeling behind him, that he’s restricted to just _feeling_. He finds it freeing.

Suddenly, Eliot’s mouth is on him again, wet and hot, thumbs spreading his cheeks apart. He falls onto his elbows with a snap, suddenly unable to hold himself up. This is different than before. _Purposeful._ Before, Eliot was exploratory, purely working to get him off, but now his tongue is pressing inside immediately, trying to get as deep as it can. It hits him that it’s different because this time, Eliot is _getting him ready to take his cock_. For some reason with that thought, he lets go, releasing the tension he didn’t realize he was carrying, the small pit of worry buried deep in his brain. He lets Eliot take care of him and just lets himself _feel_. A minute or an hour later, he feels Eliot work the tip of a finger in alongside his tongue.

It’s a weird feeling at first. A tongue is soft, relenting and fluid, but a finger is more of an intrusion. It’s not Quentin’s first rodeo though. He _knows_ the potential here. So he bears down, trying without words to say _more please, I can take it, I want it_. Eliot either doesn’t get the memo, or decides he knows better because he continues to work a single finger into him _so slow_ like he’s going to break if Eliot pushes past the first knuckle. Quentin pushes back, trying to get even just a little bit deeper and Eliot _finally_ gives him more, sinking steadily all the way in and easing back out until just the tip remains inside. And again. And again until the movement is fluid and his body accepts what he wants it to. And only then, as he’s pushing in once more, does Eliot curl his finger _just_ inside against Quentin’s prostate.

It’s just a gentle brush, an introduction, but he _moans_ , not expecting it so soon. It’s like a switch flips, like his body _finally_ catches up with what his mind has been telling it and in the same amount of time it took Eliot to work the first finger into him, he adds two more.

“Fuck, baby, there you go,” Eliot’s voice breaks as he fucks him slowly with three fingers, letting Quentin rock back against them. And then, after a moment, “Touch yourself.”

So focused on letting Eliot work him open, he’d forgotten about his erection entirely. He gets into a rhythm now though, fucking into his hand and then back against Eliot’s fingers until he’s fully, achingly hard again. He chokes on a breath when Eliot decides then to stroke against his prostate again and the double sensation is _so much_ , he could definitely come like this, let Eliot undo him with just the press of his fingers, the gentle aching stretch of being full.

“Fuck Eliot, I’m ready, please,” it’s not quite begging, not that he’s above that.

The fingers inside him don’t change pace at all, pressing in and out maddeningly slow, occasionally curling into that spot inside him. He feels Eliot drape himself over him, fingers still working, cock hard against his lower back, and his free hand coming to his hair once more –and of _course_ Eliot is going to abuse that bit of information now that he’s seen the response it gets.

He pulls Quentin’s head back just slightly, kisses searing up his neck to his ear, “No, you’re not.” Quentin is not ashamed to admit he _whines_ deep in his throat, desperation growing.

“I know how bad you want it,” he punctuates the words with a curl of his fingers and an insistent press of his cock against Quentin, “but, and not to flatter myself, but it’s a lot to take-” Quentin shudders at that, _fully_ aware of Eliot’s size even without the cock in question pressed against him, “-and I’m not-” Eliot exhales sharply, hips and fingers both stuttering against Quentin with how much he _wants_ , “-putting it in you until I know you can handle it.”

Quentin whines again, “I don’t remember needing-” he inhales sharply as Eliot –the _asshole_ – decides to massage his prostate at that moment. More than the quick, teasing stroke he’d been giving Q every so often, this is a targeted distraction technique to undermine his argument. He steels himself, “-so much _preamble_ the last time you fucked me.”

Eliot chuckles, “Mmmhm, some combination of the bottles,” he fucks into Q harder than he has so far, “and the wine,” spreading his fingers, stretching him, “and you coming on Margo’s tits may have relaxed you more than you’re remembering.”

 _Fair point,_ he’s about to concede when Eliot carefully adds a fourth finger and he gets distracted by the stretch, back arching. He has no idea how Eliot thinks he’s not ready when his body _wants_ this much.

“Jesus fuck, Eliot, _please_ ,” he _is_ begging now. Eliot makes a strangled noise in his throat. For the first time, Quentin looks back, trying to _see_ despite the awkwardness of the angle. As composed as he sounded a minute ago, Eliot looks _ruined_. Quentin doesn’t think he even realizes he’s being watched, his attention rapt, eyes wide as he watches his fingers sink inside as Q stretches around him.

Like the snap of a rubber band, Eliot’s whole body shifts and Quentin realizes he’s won this argument. “Tell me you want it,” he says as he pulls his fingers out for the last time, working through the tuts once more just to make sure there’s plenty of lube.

Quentin whines, and he’s pretty sure his dick is going to develop a Pavlovian response to that spell, “ _You know I want it,_ you fucking _jerk_ , put your dick in me already,” and for once, Eliot listens to him, pressing the fat head of his cock against Quentin’s hole and pushing forward. He’s never had unprotected sex before –he thinks they probably, definitely should have talked about that– and there’s something hot and dirty about it. The thrill of doing something he’s not supposed to, the rawness of sharing something with Eliot he’s never given to anyone before. He likes it more than he should.

Even with the absolutely _excessive_ amount of fingering Eliot put him through, the stretch as he sinks in is _breathtaking_. He strokes himself lightly, enjoying the feeling of Eliot slowly filling him up, “Fuck you’re even bigger than I remember,” he says when he realizes Eliot isn’t even fully inside him yet. He hears a small, strangled noise from behind him and _of course_ Eliot likes having his ego stroked in bed.

Finally, Quentin feels Eliot’s hips press against him and _fuck_ how had he forgotten _how_ good it feels to be stretched and filled like this? He can’t help but bear down and squeeze around Eliot a little, feeling the abortive thrust of the other man’s hips, caught off guard by the sensation, “Fuck, Q.”

And then, Eliot starts to really fuck him.

It’s... _slow_ is the wrong word. _Steady._ Perfect. Quentin presses his face against the cool sheets, already overwhelmed, pressing back into every thrust. Losing himself in the onslaught of sensation. He’s not sure how long Eliot fucks him like that before he can feel him start to lose control, thrusting shallow and _hard_ and finally just _taking_ what he needs. Quentin realizes at this angle if he can just shift his hips a _little_ \- and fuck. _Fuck._ It’s even better than he thought.

He realizes he’s been moaning and he really is glad there’s no one around to hear this. He wants to keep this just for them. The feeling of Eliot just fucking _railing_ him, brushing right against his prostate without even meaning to is so much. _Too much._ He lets go of his cock, unwilling to come so soon, but it doesn’t seem to slow down the train down much at all. He braces himself against the bed, resting his forehead against the sheets, and realizes with shock and no small amount of arousal, _I could come just like this_. He wants to share the revelation with Eliot but he can’t make his mouth form anything remotely resembling speech. He’s an absolute _mess_ , shaking, gasping, and so close he’s pretty sure he’ll come if Eliot _breathes_ on him too hard.

And then Eliot shifts, sinking all the way into him again, draping himself across Q’s back and grabbing his hair again. Without the stimulation to his prostate, Quentin eases away from the edge. After a moment, like he was waiting for Quentin to recover, Eliot _pulls_ his head back to ask, “How close did you get just now?” Eliot’s voice is _shattered_ , and he’s _so deep_ inside Quentin, barely more than just grinding into him now, kissing wet and needy against his neck.

Quentin gathers himself enough to reply, “I would have come. Without touching my cock,” he admits, shameless because it’s _Eliot_ , and then, almost reverent, “I didn’t know that was _possible_.”

Eliot huffs a laugh against his neck, but it sounds desperate. He’s still just grinding into Q, barely moving and yet it’s _so good_ , “We can-” he loses the sentence when Quentin starts to push back into him again, “-definitely explore that later, baby, but I’m not – _fuck_ ,” he thrusts _properly_ into Quentin a few desperate times –like he can’t bear _not_ to any longer, the hand not in his hair squeezing his hip– before regaining his composure, “I’m not done fucking you just yet.”

He spreads Quentin’s knees further apart –which _does something_ to a primal part of Quentin– and pushes him down until his chest is pressed into the mattress, the tip of his dick just grazing the sheets and _fuck,_ he has absolutely no leverage like this, no way to thrust backwards. Eliot is pressed against every inch of him, chest to back, above him, inside him. The hand in his hair slides down his arm to squeeze his hand –so fast he almost doesn’t realize– and then it’s moving along his side, down around his stomach, fingers scratching through his happy trail before, finally, wrapping around Quentin’s dick. He fucks Q just like that, slow and hard, with one arm braced on the bed to hold himself up, the only place they’re not touching.

Quentin, Quentin is _gone_. He can’t process _so much skin_ against him, the too-light strokes of Eliot’s hand, meant to tease more than please, and the unforgiving fullness of his cock filling Quentin up over and over again. Even if the position gave him the freedom to grind back against Eliot, he’s not sure he could do anything but take it.

“Fuck, Q, you’re beautiful,” it’s whispered, so quiet he almost doesn’t catch it, into his neck. It his him like a gut punch, catching his voice in this throat. He chokes out a _sob,_ suddenly overwhelmed. He turns his head towards Eliot and, after freeing a hand that had been pinned beneath his chest, pulls him down into a kiss.

The angle is the worst, he can barely reach Eliot’s lips for more than a moment at a time. So he pushes himself up on his forearm just enough for better leverage and, now that he can _reach_ , he presses everything he can’t find the words for into Eliot’s mouth. And Eliot gives it back in return, tongue and teeth and lips all just as desperate for contact as the rest of him.

Quentin has no idea how long they kiss like that, bodies pressed as close as they can get, with Eliot’s cock stretching him open, filling him up slow and deep. Just as his neck starts to hurt from the angle, Eliot kisses down his jaw, moving down his neck and onto his spine before leaning up, shifting backwards with Quentin’s hips. Getting the memo, Q braces himself on both arms again. Eliot’s hand slides away from his dick, giving him one last firm jerk as a goodbye before both his big hands find their way onto Quentin’s hips and _finally_ he starts to fuck him again.

“Tell me when you’re close.” he says in his _high king_ voice and that –like everything else about Eliot, apparently– makes his dick twitch with arousal. Eliot shifts his hips, just so, and _fuck_ Quentin has no idea how he knows exactly what he needs, but the angle is perfect. He loses himself in the feeling of Eliot’s dick –so big and so hard and so so good– fucking _just like that_ against his prostate. It’s almost too much, but it’s exactly what he needs. He can tell that Eliot is close, is trying so hard to get Quentin off before he lets himself come. His thrusts aren’t as controlled as before, his breathing ragged and uneven, the little groans in the back of his throat getting louder and more insistent.

It’s the hottest thing Quentin has ever experienced. He’s dripping precum onto the sheets, his cock desperate for contact it’s not going to get tonight. His arms are shaking, his whole _body_ might be shaking. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this good without actually coming before and he almost doesn’t want it to end.

“I’m so close, Eliot, fuck,” he chokes out. Eliot doesn’t respond, just whines, broken and deep in the back of his throat and fucks him harder. It’s so good, he doesn’t know why he hasn’t come yet, his arms are shaking so bad now, he’s not sure how he’s still holding himself up. Suddenly, Eliot’s hand is in his hair, griping _just_ enough, “Come on, _baby_ , come for me. Come on my cock.”

Quentin comes. He’s gone as soon as Eliot calls him _baby_ , coming in long, hot stripes all over the sheets and his stomach, cock untouched. He can feel it when Eliot realizes, as he tightens around him. Eliot tries to fuck him through it in desperate staccato thrusts but Q’s _still coming_ when he chokes out, “Q, fuck can I- inside”

His dick-addled brain somehow realizes what Eliot’s asking, “Yeah, fuck, El, come inside me, please, fuck-” he’s babbling, his vision is a mess and he realizes he came –is coming– so hard he’s _crying_. He feels Eliot bury himself as deep as he can, hips stuttering and _fuck fuck_ Quentin can _feel him coming_ hot and wet inside of him, the sound he makes desperate and broken.

He falls, unsure of how he’s held himself up so long at all. He’s still shaking. He doesn’t care that he’s lying in his own jizz, can’t even process that yet. Or anything yet. Eliot falls on top of him, not-quite putting his weight on Quentin. Arms shaking just as bad as Quentin is. He’s still inside him, not quite soft yet. Quentin flexes around him without even thinking and Eliot gasps, ragged, hips twitching. “Fuck, Q, baby, I- “ he pulls Q up to kiss him and Quentin doesn’t give a single shit that the angle hurts his neck, or that his arms can barely hold him up. They kiss open mouthed and desperate as they come down, breathing leftover passion against each other’s lips.

Eventually, Eliot pulls out of him, gasping as his soft, over-sensitive dick slides out, and he sprawls almost as far away as he can get. There’s a moment where Quentin wonders what he did before Eliot pulls him out of the wet spot and up against his chest, kissing his head like he’s something precious.

Neither of them falls asleep right away

 

\---

Quentin tries to talk about it in the morning. He _really_ tries. First, when they wake up, tangled together and too-warm.

He watches Eliot’s sleeping face for a moment or ten. He looks so much younger when he sleeps, almost boyish. So like he’d looked when they first met before all of the bullshit of their lives added stress as a permanent feature on the man’s face, just as prominent as his nose or eyelashes. Not for the first time since they’d gotten to Fillory, he tries to put into words –at least for himself– what he feels for the other man and just finds them so…. inadequate.

“I can hear you thinking, Coldwater. Don’t hurt yourself.” Eliot, eyes still closed and voice heavy and lazy like a Sunday morning, drags him out of his thoughts. Instead of replying, Quentin just leans down to kiss him.

It’s supposed to be quick. Just a peck, a _hello-good-morning_ before they started talking about last night. But one peck turns into a complete disregard for morning breath, hands lazily skimming over chests and thighs until they’re both hard. When Quentin breaks the kiss, it’s not for talking. His dick has bumped that plan further back in the queue in favor of scraping his teeth and tongue over the stubble on Eliot’s neck, feeling the sandpaper scrape of it against his lips until they’re numb. And, without a conscious consideration, he’s suddenly kissing his way down Eliot’s chest with intent.

There’s something about sucking cock that Quentin _loves_. Oral in general has always been something he enjoyed, being able to just _give_ without the distraction of his own pleasure. It was always one of the few things –in bed and in life– he had any kind of confidence in. But something about dicks specifically was just _easy_. Easy to know where to focus, easy to know when his partner is close, easy to tell when they’ve come. Instant gratification.

It doesn’t hurt that Eliot has an absolutely _gorgeous_ cock. He lets himself relish the first press of the thick head against his lips, makes himself appreciate the feel of Eliot against his tongue before he gets lost in it.

“God how did I forget what a greedy cocksucker you are, Q?” the words make Quentin groan around the dick in his mouth and Eliot’s hips buck in response. He can feel Eliot staring down at him, watching Q work him over, lips coming down to meet the hand around the base.

When a hand buries itself in his hair, he finally meets Eliot’s eyes. Quentin sees him give out a shaky breath, hand tightening in his hair and guiding him down faster. He’s not sure how long it takes for Eliot to come like that, but their eyes don’t part until Q feels the first spurt in the back of his throat.

“Fuck, baby,” _there it is again_. And then, after a moment for Eliot to recollect himself, he’s pushing Quentin onto his back and _kissing kissing kissing_ him so breathless that Quentin’s almost –almost– sad when he starts working his way down to return the favor.

 

\--- 

Eventually they make it out to the mosaic after a breakfast that’s far more giggly than either of them will ever admit to. And Quentin remembers, _oh right_ , they should probably talk about this.

About the fact that last night was the single most intense experience of his life, sexual or otherwise.

About how the rest of the world –the quest, they keys, his frustration with this bullshit puzzle, the ache in his heart that reminds him he hasn’t seen his friends or family in _a year_ – disappears when Eliot looks at him.

About what last night means when they get back and Eliot has a wife and a fiancé waiting for him.

About what it means _now._

“Um so,” he starts, wishing he’d thought a little more about what to say over breakfast and a little less about Eliot’s eyes.

“Yeah… um,“ if he didn’t know Eliot so well, he’d think the tone was dismissive. Even before living in the man’s back pocket for a year though, Quentin could have heard the raw layer beneath the words. The effort put into _sounding_ calm and collected. He’s glad Eliot at least can _find_ words, any words, to address the elephant, “Let’s just… save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?”

Happy, for once, to be able to just enjoy whatever this is, Quentin agrees, “Yeah.”

Whatever this thing between them is, he’s sure they’ll work it out eventually. Words are overrated anyway.


End file.
